


Lately I'm (Not) Feeling Like Myself

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: “Viggo’s put a hit out on you. Two million.” Marcus stretches, resettling the suitcase in one hand. It seems so much heavier than it used to be; a burden, when once upon a time it had all the intangible weight of an extra limb.





	Lately I'm (Not) Feeling Like Myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).

“Viggo’s put a hit out on you. Two million.” Marcus stretches, resettling the suitcase in one hand. It seems so much heavier than it used to be; a burden, when once upon a time it had all the intangible weight of an extra limb. “I’d ask what you did to scare him that bad, but I’m not sure I want to know. You okay?”

He can hear John breathing on the other side of the phone. “His son came to my place in the middle of the night. Killed the dog Helen left me. Stole my car.”

Marcus tilts his head back, the bricks striking the back of his skull. “Not that old Mustang.” There’s nothing to be said about the dog. He wouldn’t know where to start.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus. I’m surprised you didn’t tear him apart with your bare hands.”

“I’m _retired_.” There’s an uncanny creak to John’s voice, a flaw like a crack in a windshield that spreads the longer it goes unacknowledged. Again, Marcus adjusts the weight of his bag, his rifle, his life and livelihood. He feels worry simmer under the pre-mission calm. That won’t do. Can’t take the shot if you can’t steady the hands. And his hands are getting less steady by the second.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ve seen the doctor.”

“Like that means anything.” Marcus taps his head back against the wall. Not hard enough to do serious harm, but enough to make sure he’s awake. That he’s not sleepwalking down well-trodden roads, falling into old habits just because they feel easy. “I’m coming up. What’s your room number?”

“Marcus, it’s fine. I don’t need you to-”

“Room number, John. Don’t make me go hassle reception for it.”

“818.”

“_Thank_ you.”

Charon doesn’t blink when Marcus makes his way to reception, says he’s expected, and asks for the key to the staff elevator. He doesn’t even look surprised. Probably isn’t. John has an uncanny tendency to bring out the unusual in every situation. And a habit of making friends where he shouldn’t; Marcus sets his suitcase down in the private staff elevator with a grateful sigh, and wonders if he’s the first to pull this particular stunt. He’d bet not.

“Two million,” he says again when John opens the door. “We’re not talking chump change here. Even for Viggo, that’s considerable.”

John doesn’t move from the doorway. A sling around one arm, stained white tee, shorts that aren’t faring much better. Blood and a blank look on his face. That’s his own fault; _retired_ is no excuse for getting slow, and Marcus is the expert in that - he’s lost count of the number of times he’s declared himself _retired_. It doesn’t stick. The graveyard dirt won’t shake from the soles of his shoes.

“Are you going to do it?” John asks.

Marcus considers pushing past him, and decides against it. Too many people have been pushing John around recently. “You think I won’t? For that kind of bounty?”

“Two million would buy you a lot of carrot juice.” Finally, something gives way in John’s expression. He steps aside to let Marcus in.

“When you’re my age, you take whatever advantage you can get. Keep it in mind.” Marcus sets his suitcase down by the door; _I’m not staying long_, he doesn’t say. _I’m not supposed to be here at all. I took the contract. _“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.”

“If you’re going to, now would be a good time,” John says. He lifts the arm in the sling, wincing. “Painkillers haven’t kicked in yet.”

“That’s because you think hard liquor counts as a goddamn medication.”

“It’s always worked for me.” Sinking into a chair, John rubs at the wounded shoulder. He’s loose of limb, not drunk but clearly influenced, clearly off his game. Bandage padding on one side of his ribcage. Someone’s been in the wars. Someone was an idiot to think he’d ever leave them. And Marcus is just as bad, for buying the lie that five years would be enough to cleanse himself of the habit that is John Wick.

“Continental rules might not keep you safe,” he says. It’s so easy to tread the road long-travelled; to let his feet carry him over to the table, the ice pack, and bring it back to where John waits. The number of times they’ve patched each other up. Bled on each other’s floors, on each other’s clothes. Passed out in each other’s beds – “I can take the couch” was always as meaningless as, “I’m fine, I don’t need help.”

“I know,” John says. “Too many old grudges. I don’t want to come back, Marcus. This isn’t a choice I’m making.”

“You just keep telling yourself that,” Marcus says wearily. “Take it from someone who knows – it doesn’t work. You can call your choices whatever you want, but you just keep on making them all the same. And then you end up here. Beaten down, with two million on your head and me feeling tempted.”

“I’m not giving you a free kill.”

“Of course not,” Marcus says. He looks down at John in the chair, the bloodstains, the exhaustion. The hair falling across his forehead; Marcus pushes it carefully back. The old affection slots in place as neatly as his favourite rifle. He never really buried it. Just pulled it apart and lined the pieces up in a cupboard, in case they were ever needed again.

“You’re in luck,” he says. “For now. Guess I’m just not feeling like myself.” He is, though. He’s not one iota different from the man he always is with John. The same man who bends to kiss an ugly bruise at John’s temple, and then further as John inclines his head. They don’t kiss like it’s been five years and change. More like they never stopped, and never plan to. It’s always been this way.

John makes to get up when Marcus lets him go; he’s looking at the bed, thinking what Marcus is thinking, that it’ll go easier this way, that he might not tear his stitches open not half an hour after getting them. Marcus rests a hand on his shoulder. Holds him down.

“Relax,” he says quietly. “Just let someone do a good thing for you.” His knees protest as he sinks to them, but what’s life without a little pain to make it real?

He mouths at the front of John’s shorts, tugs them down just far enough to free his cock – he’s soft, alcohol and agony taking some of the heat out of him, but that won’t last. His hands are careful in Marcus’ hair. Not pushy. He knows better by now. Marcus sucks at the tip of him, drags a firm hand down his length, and feels John start to tense. He was always quick on the uptake. Heavier now on Marcus’ tongue, his breathing shallow, the taste of him as familiar as a yesterday.

It will be how it always is. Marcus will never take the shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 300bpm flash exchange. The song prompt was:  
[_Lately_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WwkUxpuiBI) \- Lera Lynn


End file.
